‘Tell me.’ His lips move but his teeth are clenched.
‘David—’
‘You’ve destroyed us,’ he says. He should be shouting but his tone is steady, almost calm – which makes it feel so much more dangerous. ‘You’re ruined everything. I’d have done anything for you – but you’re just like all the others.’
‘I—’
I don’t have a finish to the sentence and it’s only now that I remember the knife. The overhead light catches the blade as it sags in David’s hand. He notices it too and suddenly grasps it tighter.
It’s strange how things that happen the quickest can feel as if they’re occurring in slow motion. At regular pace, it’s easy to miss the details. Two people side by side can spot completely different things in the same scene.
Even though everything happens in an instant, I see it all with absolute clarity. David lunges towards the side of the counter, the knife clenched in his hand; the tip angled in my direction. His teeth are bared, like a cornered animal; his arm muscles tensed. In a blink, he slashes the knife towards me. The glint of the kitchen lights flash off the blade as it arcs through the air towards my cheek. My back is pressed hard into the counter and I feel the swish of the air as it passes millimetres away from my skin when I angle away.
I’m acting on instinct as I grab the Tigger head pot from the counter at my side. David’s attempt to cut me has left him slightly off-balance and, as he straightens to come at me again, I throw the pot towards him. Anything to gain myself a second or two so that I can dash towards the door.
I’ve always had some degree of fitness and athletic ability – but I never tried javelin or discus when I was young. I didn’t play cricket or rounders and threw ‘like a girl’ according to the boys I was at school with.
Not today.
The throw couldn’t be more perfect, or devastating. David glances to his own hand, as if surprised he is still holding the knife and, in that millisecond, the pot thunders into his temple. His eyes roll into his head as he slumps to the side, thwacking his other temple on the corner of the counter. His head snaps back and then he drops limply to the floor, surrounded by broken ceramics, unmovingly still.
There’s a sudden second of silence and I’m gasping for breath as I take a couple of steps towards the door. Flight not fight… except that David hasn’t moved.
There’s something else…
When I glance down, there is a drizzle of red across the centre of my top. I’m not sure how I missed it – but there is a throbbing sting as I touch the base of my neck and then remove my blood-soaked fingers.
David’s knife didn’t miss me.
Thirty-Two
THE NOW
Good solicitors have the ability to make grown adults feel like uninformed children. They’re like parents who can explain why the sky is blue with the assurance that the world is in safe hands as long as they’re in charge.
The room at the back of the police station is small and cramped, with barely space for two seats and a table. Some sort of fan is buzzing overhead, as if there’s one giant bee trapped within the walls.
None of this fazes Mr Patrick, because I can’t believe anything would. He’s one of those distinguished middle-aged men for whom first names don’t seem appropriate. I can imagine his wife and kids calling him ‘Mister’.
‘It appears that the man struck by your car has taken a turn for the worse,’ he says, as he peers at me over his glasses.
‘He’s not going to die, is he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘I ran into his son in the pub last night,’ I say.
‘How do you mean “ran into”?’
‘My boyfriend and I were playing pool out at the Kingfisher. I had no idea who he was – but he came over and called me a murderer.’
This brings the merest of frowns and, perhaps worse, Mr Patrick rubs the bridge of his nose. ‘You should have called me,’ he says.
‘I didn’t think. It was all a bit of a shock.’
‘What happened?’
‘Not a lot. He shouted and then my boyfriend talked him down. He left and then we left.’
Mr Patrick notes something on a pad in writing that might as well be hieroglyphics given the state of it.
‘I can mention it to ensure it’s on file,’ he says.
‘I don’t want any trouble.’
He taps his pen on the pad and nods along. When he looks up, it’s obvious we’ve moved on. ‘So, we’re clear about what happens when we go back in?’
‘I am… but I don’t get it. I haven’t done anything. My car was stolen. What’s wrong with saying that?’
Mr Patrick removes his glasses and uses the handkerchief from his pocket to wipe them clean. ‘Perhaps in an ideal world,’ he says. ‘Let’s remember that it’s innocent until proven guilty. You don’t have to prove you were in bed: they have to prove you were driving. The more you talk, the greater the risk of accidentally saying the wrong thing.’
‘Like what? I know what happened.’
‘Perhaps you say you left the hotel at 2.30 – except they have camera footage of you leaving at 2.25 because you weren’t paying perfect attention. Then you say you were home at five – but they’ve got footage from a motorway camera of you being nearby fifteen minutes earlier than you thought. Say you gave one time when you last spoke to them, but, today, it’s slightly different.’ There’s an edge of annoyance to this, like being scolded by a teacher. Disappointment, not anger. ‘You’ve not lied,’ he adds. ‘It’s just that humans are imperfect. We round up and down. We don’t pay complete attention. Everyone does it – except that, in cases such as this, timings matter. The more you talk, the more chance there is of getting the small things mixed up. Put together a few things like that and it suddenly looks like you’re trying to hide something. They’re after inconsistencies – even unintentional ones.’
‘I always thought guilty people said nothing…’
* * *
It’s the same interview room as the last time I was here. Constable Robinson is back – the one who barely said anything – but, this time, he’s alongside someone called Inspector Bainbridge. I wonder if it’s a bad sign that a sergeant has been swapped for an inspector. Whether this means it’s more serious. Bainbridge is of the same mould as my solicitor – a similar age, build and level of charismatic distinguishment. I suspect they’ve each been doing their respective jobs long enough that they could swap places and argue equally as passionately for the opposite side.
The room still feels brown and encompassing. In a kidnap movie, the victim would be chained to a wall in here.
Bainbridge sets the interview up by introducing everyone and then he gets to business: ‘Where were you at five-oh-five hours on Monday morning, Mrs Persephone?’
I want to answer, to make it clear I was in bed, but Mr Patrick steps in and speaks for me: ‘My client has already made it clear where she was at that time, Inspector. If you want the answer, I suggest you check the transcript from the last time you spoke to her.’
I expect Bainbridge to be annoyed, but his lack of reaction makes it seem like he expected something along these lines. The interview – if it can be called that – goes on in much the same fashion.
‘My client left the hotel in search of a more comfortable sleep.’
‘My client is a victim here, Inspector.’
‘You already have the answer to this.’
It reminds me of the few times I’ve caught Parliamentary footage on the news channel. Someone will ask a question and the MP will say: ‘I refer the honourable gentlemen to the reply I gave some moments ago.’
It’s clearly a giant middle finger, although we all continue as if it’s perfectly fine. Bainbridge asks me a question, I say nothing; and my solicitor – in not so many words – tells him to do one.
Everything he says on my behalf is correct, but it still feels wrong in his mouth.
It feels like frustration is finally starting to
kick in as Constable Robinson sets up something that looks like an iPad on the desk. There’s a video that must have come from the hotel’s reception area that shows me entering through the main doors with Jane.
‘Is this you, Mrs Persephone?’ he asks.
‘Yes.’
My reply gets a raised eyebrow from Mr Patrick, which is the equivalent of a monumental telling-off.
The video shows me walking through from reception into the main suite where the awards dinner took place. I say hello to a couple of people I know and then, in a moment that is so cringey, I find myself covering my eyes, I start to dance.
‘Would you like to describe what’s happening here?’ Bainbridge says.
I know I’m supposed to stay quiet, but it’s so bad that I can’t shut my mouth: ‘A pretty bad attempt at the cha-cha slide by the look of it,’ I say.
‘Do you perform the, ahem, cha-cha slide often?’
It sounds so ridiculous in his fatherly voice that I can’t stop my lips from twitching upwards. Like a dad claiming he’s into hop-hip. The smile passes as quickly as it arrived and then Mr Patrick answers for me.
‘Come now, Inspector. If this is all you have to ask about, I think we’ll be going.’
He motions to stand, but Bainbridge fires back with another question: ‘How much did you drink, Mrs Persephone?’
I suppose he’s suggesting I was already drunk before the awards, meaning I might have been drunker later on when I drove back.
‘I believe my client passed a breathalyser test,’ Mr Patrick says.
‘Hours after the crash.’
‘Was there any indication in those results that she drove drunk?’
There’s no reply, which is an answer in itself.
The video finishes with Jane and I walking away from the awards room, back towards reception, ready to check in. I’m not sure what came over me in that moment.
‘When did you last see your husband?’
Mr Patrick acts far quicker than me. I’m wondering whether he knows something he can’t possibly.
‘Sorry, Inspector. Are we talking about a stolen car, or my client’s husband?’
‘One thing could be linked to the other, considering there was no apparent break-in to take the car keys…’
It’s the flaw in my story that can’t easily be righted. I can’t explain how someone got those spare keys because I have no idea.
‘Have you changed your locks?’ Bainbridge asks.
I figure there’s no reason to avoid this question: ‘I have now.’
‘Have you seen your husband in the two years since he disappeared?’
The pause is momentary before Mr Patrick steps in: ‘I don’t see how this is relevant.’
I think of the photo Jane took with the man in the blue suit in the background. David or not David.
‘No,’ I say.
Thirty-Three
THE WHY
Two years, one month ago
Blood is starting to pool, creating a soggy, crimson halo around David’s head. I keep expecting him to blink and climb groggily to his feet. Seconds pass; maybe a minute, maybe more – but he doesn’t move. The knife has clanged free from his hand and is poking out from the small gap under the cooker.
There’s my blood, too. When I look at myself in the mirror, there’s a narrow slit that arcs across the top of my collarbone, near the base of my neck. David was aiming for my face and it was only my last-second flinch to the side that made him miss. It’s not deep – nothing for which I’d have to go to the hospital – although there’s plenty of blood.
As I look at my reflection, I tell myself I did the only thing I could. Not only that, the outcome was an accident.
If I tried another hundred times, I doubt I could muster the accuracy I had when the clay pot hit David’s head.
Then there’s the voice at the back of my mind that says he was simply moving around the counter. He was holding the knife because he was making a sandwich and, in all the drama, he forgot he was holding it.
‘David?’
I crouch, avoiding the blood, and gently pinch his fingers.
‘Come on, David. Time to get up.’
The shattered pieces of the clay pot are spread around the kitchen. There are four or five large shards and then a couple of dozen smaller pieces. I push some of the bigger ones towards the side, out of my way, as I move around David’s body and then gently slap his face.
‘David?’
I hold his wrist, trying to check his pulse, but my fingers and trembling and I can’t control my grip. I try his neck, but there’s nothing. I even press a hand to his chest, looking for even the merest of inflations.
Nothing.
I start pumping his chest – one-two-three-four-five – aah-aah-aah-aah-staying alive – but then I stop. What happens if he does come around? An assault charge? Attempted murder? How can I explain it all?
And then…
I remember the news from a few weeks ago. David and I argued about the stolen watch he’d given me, but, before that, I was watching the story of the one-punch man. One stupid action and two families lost everything. David is already dead and it isn’t like he’s close to his sister. He doesn’t have anyone else, except me. Should I lose everything because of one action that wasn’t even deliberate?
It suddenly feels as if I’m out of my body. Like someone, or something, else has taken over – and I’m now watching myself. It’s either rationality or the complete lack of it.
I clamp a square of kitchen towel to my neck and then head into the bathroom, where I grab a bandage from the cabinet. It looks ridiculous as I wind the material around my neck and secure it with a plaster – but it does the job in stopping the bleeding.
After that, I move into the bedroom and strip the bed. The sheets were one of the few things on which I spent decent amounts of money when I first moved in. I couldn’t afford much in the way of luxury but figured anything that contributed to a good night’s sleep would be worth it. The value is worthless now as I carry the sheets into the kitchen and cover David’s body. I start to wrap him, like he’s some sort of Egyptian Mummy, folding the corners until he is fully entombed. Blood is seeping through the top part, so I wrap a second sheet around his head, which, for the moment, seems to stop the worst of the flow.
With David entombed, it’s not that difficult to drag him across the laminate floor until he’s by the front door. I return to the kitchen, pushing the larger parts of the clay pot into the corner and wiping away the worst of David’s blood. I squirt some Mr Muscle onto the floor, leaving it to soak in.
The reddened cloths all go into a bin bag and I’m about to dump the pieces of Tigger’s head in with them when I stop. There are very few tiny shards and I wonder if it could be glued back together. It would be like keeping the gun or knife after a murder and yet, for the first time, I realise why someone might do that. There’s something close to a mystical quality about an object that’s done so much damage. A fascination that cannot be matched.
Instead of dumping the broken pieces of ceramic, I brush the rest of them into the corner and then get back to work.
It’s not a deep clean – there’s time for that in future – but I finish clearing away anything obvious, until I have a pair of black bags full of cloths and paper towels.
I’ve never been a fan of the end of a year, when it feels like the sun never comes up. Darkness has a grip on the day, which it seems so reluctant to relinquish. It’s a blessing now, though.
My car is backed onto the patch of land by my door. I’ve often thought about installing some sort of motion-detecting security light overhead because the nearest street lamp is diagonally across the road and offers little light in this direction. Now, I’m grateful for the gloom.
It takes me a short while to find my car keys. They were in the pot when I threw it and, for a moment, it’s like they’ve fallen through a wormhole. David is here, the broken pot is in the corner, my house keys are nex
t to the knife, which I realise is stained with my blood – but there are no car keys. Five minutes pass before I finally discover them in the sink, next to the buttery knife David left. It’s as if they’ve broken the laws of physics by somehow travelling in the opposite direction to everything else.
I open my car boot and then drag David out of my door and heft him into the back. I add the two bin bags and then return into the flat to grab the ball of string from under the sink. I can’t ever remember using it, nor why I bought it – but it will be useful now. I get the scissors from the kitchen drawer and then take a pair of the bricks from the wall next to my car that always looks like it’s on the brink of collapsing.
I wipe away a few final smears of blood from the floor inside and then lock the flat, while leaving the lights on. My dad used to be obsessed with things like this back in the day. He was convinced anyone passing was secretly planning to break in and, every time we left the house, he’d leave the lights on. As crime prevention methods go, it’s relatively basic – although we were never burgled, so perhaps he was onto something. Either way, I figure any neighbour who casually glances across the road will see the lights and assume I’m in.
The car feels sluggish from the back, although I take it slowly as I head out of Gradingham and head for the road out towards Little Bush Woods.
I’m only a couple of minutes past the village sign, when I hear the clunk from the back. I ease off the accelerator, wondering if I’ve bumped over some roadkill, when it comes again. My mind races: David’s still alive – and he’s banging on the side of the car, wondering what’s going on.
I slow and ease the car onto a verge at the side of the road. High hedges surround both sides and it’s colder in the countryside. My breath ekes into the air as I open the driver’s door and edge around to the back of the car. I rest a hand on the clasp at the back, wondering what to do. It will be impossible to dress this up as some sort of misunderstanding. It’s not like I’m taking David to the hospital…
Close to You (ARC) Page 18
